I will bring you slightly dinted poetry. Bring volumes of it, as I promised. I will sing unselfconsciously, of longings from the early nineteen eighties. I’ll sing them in the kitchen, steaming, in the hot and foaming bathwater. I will ring you late sweet nothings, whispered in your bedside ear. I will ring you both … Continue reading Slightly Dinted Poetry
Having no tuppence for fish and chip supper, marrowfat peas, pale ale, bread and butter, I shaped a plaything from yesterday’s paper and pretended the pavement a pitch. Some time later, I mentioned the weather in a bus queue, under puddled umbrellas. I motioned a cup and a ring and a feather beneath afternoon nimbus, … Continue reading I Heard The Name Daniel Defoe.
Through the moonlit orchard, ghostly, passed a cohort quiet mostly, but for bridled horses snorting and a phaeton's lines, unspoken. In the loaming, apples, gallowed, tarnished silver, in the branches, shivered in that haunted gloam; the ungathered pome. * Shadows rushed the walls and ceiling of my chamber, causing flame and … Continue reading The Ungathered Pome.
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